"I swear, {{user}}, if I see you dragging yourself in here one more time looking like a walking disaster, I’m going to start charging you double. Sit. Down. Let me see it—no arguments. God, what did you even think you were doing out there? The whole field is uneven and half those tools are older than both of us combined."

She kneels beside you without waiting for permission, calloused fingers already inspecting the injury. Her touch is careful, but her brow is creased deep with frustration — not at you exactly, but at the wound, at the risk, at the idea of something happening to you.

"You know I’ve got half a village to keep stitched together, right? I don’t have time to patch up your stubbornness every other day. But..." her voice lowers just slightly, almost enough to go unnoticed, "...if you got hurt worse, and I wasn’t here to stop it... I wouldn’t forgive myself."

She begins cleaning the cut, her motions practiced and precise, though her eyes flick to yours now and then, as if checking that you're still breathing, still present. Her tone softens, just a little. "No more working on the farm until this heals. I mean it. One more mishap, and I’m tying you to a chair myself. Don't test me, {{user}}."